between sleep and awake
by paradisdesbilles
Summary: There is that moment between sleep and awake, when heavy droplets of dew cling to the fabrics of their tents and not a sound can be heard, when Bellamy is acutely aware of the world around him. Those first nights on earth were the hardest ones, without the lull of the Ark's vent system to pull him back to sleep. He savours the silence, all too rare these days, and the warmth of his


There is that moment between sleep and awake, when heavy droplets of dew cling to the fabrics of their tents and not a sound can be heard, when Bellamy is acutely aware of the world around him. Those first nights on earth were the hardest ones, without the lull of the Ark's vent system to pull him back to sleep. He savours the silence, all too rare these days, and the warmth of his bed, of the body flushed against his naked skin.

Intimacy, he's come to learn, is to be cherished in its rarity, and so he pulls her closer to him, nose buried in her hair as he closes his eyes once more. She smells like earth and spring, the delicate fragrance of flowers and rain, that not even a night under the blankets and furs to keep them warm can tarnish. Bellamy likes that, this scent of hers that follows him everywhere, clinging to her skin and lingering in his bed.

He likes her, even more so, when she wraps an arm around his waist and uses his shoulder as a pillow – likes how soft her features are when she is asleep, worry no longer on her brow, concern away from the corner of her mouth. He likes her that way, peaceful and open, as she mumbles a few words he can barely make out.

(Sometimes, he might even think he loves her.)

She stirs in his arms, snuggling in his embrace as he kisses the top of her head. It is yet another couple of minutes before she really moves, looking up to him through heavy lashes. "Morning," she whispers, and he can only offer a crooked smile of his as an answer, not to break the calm of the moment. Those are all too rare to be wasted on words.

So his knuckles brush her cheek, slowly, before he tucks a strand of hair behind her ear as she smiles back – a sleepy smile if he's ever seen one, lazy and tender, and it does things to him, breath stuck at the back of his throat for a second or two. Sometimes, he barely believes it to be true, this feeling, barely dares thinking it will last – happiness torn from their hands the way it always is, misery coming back when they least expect it.

But during those few blissful moments before dawn, Bellamy likes to pretend – pretend they are at peace, pretend they are just a boy and a girl sharing a bed. No responsibilities, no weight on their shoulders, no lives to protect. Just a warm bed and even warmer body against his, just Clarke's smile as her fingers trace the bridge of his nose, graze his cheek.

"X marks the spot," she says when she traces the scar there, nothing but two white lines on his otherwise tan skin. He presses his tongue to his cheek, right where he finger is, and is graced with a small giggle when he does so.

(Her laughs are small and precious, only for him or her mother. He's learnt to treasure them in their rarity.)

"I thought you were a princess, not a pirate."

She rolls her eyes with the hint of a grin – he feels like falling, hard, even with the way she so openly mocks him, because she looks so lovely when she does just that, when she doesn't buy his bullshit.

"I can be whatever the hell I –" Her quip ends in a yelp as he pokes her in the ribs and she squirms her way out of his arms and his reach, ticklish little things she is. It leads to fooling around under the blankets as she keeps escaping him, her laughs loud and cheerful every time he tries to grab her by the waist. Which he does, eventually, pinning her under him – his lips find hers with the ease of many a shared kiss, until they're both breathless and panting, pupils blown black and lips swollen.

She's a sight to behold like that, hair fanning around her face like a golden halo, red high on her cheeks as she wets her lip. She's so fucking gorgeous, sometimes he doesn't even believer her to be real – a figment of his imagination, perhaps, a hallucination. Heaven turned woman, the most delightful of deaths.

But then she moves her hips just so and he knows her to be real, all to aware of her body against him, of her sparkling eyes.

There is that moment between sleep and awake, slumber enveloping their camp and dawn peeking out between the trees, when Bellamy and Clarke can just be.

He loves those mornings as much as he loves her.


End file.
